A SUICIDE NOTE THAT LIVES ON.
I woke up today and decided to listen to Nirvana. It was an impulse decision but it also went great with my unpredictable, inconsistent rush of emotions the past few days.
As I was laughing in my head over the funny lyrics in the song, Moist Vagina (no kidding), I thought about what’s going through Kurt Cobain’s head while he was writing and singing this. He seemed totally out of control, emotionally, in this particular song. In the middle of his signature rockstar singing prowess, I felt a sense of intense depression and desperation in his voice that I couldn’t shake off. For me, it was more than just a junkie national anthem that reverberated along with the many “Marijuana” mentions.
Next thing I know, I was googling Kurt Cobain as I was more inspired to learn more about the man behind the voice. Truth be told, I only know snippets of his life, mostly through his music, but I never really got to know him outside the confines of his revered artistry and musicality. My good friend Karlo lent me a copy of his Journals but I never really had that much interest to go over its pages until now. (Well, later actually.)
But more than his life, which I haven’t really read that much further, I was more drawn towards his death. Everyone knows that he took his own life by blowing his head off and “and with three times the lethal amount of heroin in his system.” For those who are too sad to lose a rock god, they were even hinting about foul play, that what happened to the legendary Cobain was either homicide or murder. However, his loved ones claimed that he was sick prior to his death, physically and emotionally, and suicidal tendencies actually ran in their family.
What struck me the most was his alleged suicide note, which was questioned of its authenticity, naturally. But the depth and breadth of every little detail in it just speaks to me. And I have little reason to doubt that it’s him.
Speaking from the tongue of an experienced simpleton who obviously would rather be an emasculated, infantile complain-ee. This note should be pretty easy to understand.
All the warnings from the punk rock 101 courses over the years, since my first introduction to the, shall we say, ethics involved with independence and the embracement of your community has proven to be very true. I haven’t felt the excitement of listening to as well as creating music along with reading and writing for too many years now. I feel guilty beyond words about these things.
For example, when we’re back stage and the lights go out and the manic roar of the crowds begins, it doesn’t affect me the way in which it did for Freddie Mercury, who seemed to love, relish in the love and adoration from the crowd which is something I totally admire and envy. The fact is, I can’t fool you, any one of you. It simply isn’t fair to you or me. The worst crime I can think of would be to rip people off by faking it and pretending as if I’m having 100% fun. Sometimes I feel as if I should have a punch-in time clock before I walk out on stage. I’ve tried everything within my power to appreciate it (and I do, God, believe me I do, but it’s not enough). I appreciate the fact that I and we have affected and entertained a lot of people. It must be one of those narcissists who only appreciate things when they’re gone. I’m too sensitive. I need to be slightly numb in order to regain the enthusiasms I once had as a child.
On our last 3 tours, I’ve had a much better appreciation for all the people I’ve known personally, and as fans of our music, but I still can’t get over the frustration, the guilt and empathy I have for everyone. There’s good in all of us and I think I simply love people too much, so much that it makes me feel too fucking sad. The sad little, sensitive, unappreciative, Pisces, Jesus man. Why don’t you just enjoy it? I don’t know!
I have a goddess of a wife who sweats ambition and empathy and a daughter who reminds me too much of what i used to be, full of love and joy, kissing every person she meets because everyone is good and will do her no harm. And that terrifies me to the point to where I can barely function. I can’t stand the thought of Frances becoming the miserable, self-destructive, death rocker that I’ve become.
I have it good, very good, and I’m grateful, but since the age of seven, I’ve become hateful towards all humans in general. Only because it seems so easy for people to get along that have empathy. Only because I love and feel sorry for people too much I guess.
Thank you all from the pit of my burning, nauseous stomach for your letters and concern during the past years. I’m too much of an erratic, moody baby! I don’t have the passion anymore, and so remember, it’s better to burn out than to fade away.
Peace, love, empathy.
Frances and Courtney, I’ll be at your alter.
Please keep going Courtney, for Frances.
For her life, which will be so much happier without me.
I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU!
This is already an exaggeratedly long overdue mourning for him but it’s just sad to lose someone so great, so talented, so wonderful, this way. But it’s also noteworthy that he died because he didn’t want to lie to himself, he didn’t want to lie to the people he loves, and to the people who love and worship him.
Cobain taking his own life is cowardice, yes, in a way, but there’s a little bit of bravery and honesty in his death, at the same time. I give him credit for that. Aside from the wonderful music he has made.